


Wired Life

by dracoqueen22



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Blindfolds, M/M, Mystery Character(s), Sensory Deprivation, Tactile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-25
Updated: 2012-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-08 12:15:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not knowing is half the fun. Featuring a made up Cybertronian holiday as an excuse for porn and a very unrepentant Jazz.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wired Life

“Blaster! My mech! Ya look a little down. What's up?”  
  
It’s impossible to ignore Jazz on any day for any occasion therefore Blaster doesn't even bother to try. Even when he's feeling less than chipper.  
  
He lifts his helm, tossing his best friend a bland smile.  
  
“Hey, Jazz.” He accepts the cube that the saboteur is holding out to him. “Thanks.”  
  
“No problem.” Jazz pulls out a chair with a screech of metal legs over metal floor and flips it around, sitting backward in it as is his usual preference. “I repeat my earlier question.”  
  
Blaster lifts his shoulders in a shrug.  
  
“Just a general melancholy.”  
  
Which is the truth. There's nothing specific which has got him down in the dumps.  
  
“It'll pass. What's new?”  
  
“Some gloom and doom, huh?” Jazz grins, saluting him with a glowing cube of his own. “Well, I've got just the thing to cheer you up.”  
  
He perks a little at the hint. “New tunes?”  
  
“Better.” Jazz's visor flashes with mischief. “It's April. Ya know what means, doncha?” His grin broadens.  
  
It takes a moment for the memories to connect in Blaster's core. When it does, he sits up straight in his chair, excitement replacing the odd bout of depression.  
  
“Orn of the Allspark!” he says gleefully and chugs all of his energon down in a hurry. “When's the first drawing?”  
  
“In an hour. Optimus wants it ta be a surprise.” Jazz laughs. His fingers rap over the back of the chair and betray his own excitement. “We got just enough time for a spit and polish.”  
  
Blaster's optics wander over his best friend's frame. He'd have to be permanently offline to not notice how very attractive Jazz is. Pit, the Decepticons acknowledge the sheer sexiness of the saboteur.  
  
“Your treat?” he asks.  
  
Jazz leaps to his feet. “Ya wash my back...” he trails off meaningfully.  
  
“I'll wash yours,” Blaster finishes and tosses their empty cubes into a recycle bin. Thank Primus he already sent his little guys off to do some chores.  
  
Allspark Day! His spark does a little happy twirl inside its chamber. He can't wait.  
  
\---  
  
The rec room is the only place on the Ark that can hold every Autobot on Earth comfortably. Provided that the Dinobots aren't present, of course. But since they are, it's a tight squeeze with elbows jostling, pedes getting trampled, and hardly any venting room. No one seems to mind the tight quarters.  
  
The buzz of conversation bounces from wall to wall, energy fields of every Autobot pulsing eagerly in sync, until the entire rec room seems to vibrate to the same frequency. There's not a mech among them who isn't excited. And who can blame them?  
  
After a four million year absence from Cybertron, and a war that's lasted far too long, they don't have many carryovers from their former life on Cybertron. This, however, has managed to linger. A day – or month in their case as that's the closest time equivalent they could find in Earth terms – spent trusting in Primus and fragging each other senseless. Really.  
  
“Y'know,” Jazz says, pretty much plastered to Blaster's side and not minding the proximity one bit. “I never did figure out who rattled my cage last year.” He bounces up and down on his pedes, doors twitching eagerly. “No one'll fess up no matter how much I bribe. Or threaten.”  
  
Blaster laughs. “That's part of the point, Jazzmeister.”  
  
“So? Ratchet figured out who knocked _him_ offline.”  
  
If there's any Autobot who can pull off an enticing pout, it's Jazz. He makes pouting an art. It's part of what always gets him what he wants. Except apparently the identity of his mystery mech.  
  
“Ratch's different,” Blaster corrects with a roll of his optics. “He can probably tell all of us from the sound of our systems alone.” He pauses, processor dragging up a few purloined surveillance files. “Besides. Rumor has it that Bluestreak gave himself away on purpose.”  
  
Jazz smirks. “Think Ratch'll volunteer again?”  
  
“I'd bet two barrels of solar energon on it.”  
  
“A sucker's bet.”  
  
They both burst into laughter. Poor Ratchet. He can be so predictable sometimes. Mech doesn't know when to just give in and surrender to the inevitable. Bluestreak might come off as cute and cuddly, but there's a reason he's a sharpshooter. Once he sets his optics on a target, he doesn't deviate until his mission's been completed.  
  
Ratchet never stood a chance.  
  
“May I have your attention, please?”  
  
Prime's voice very easily slices through the amiable chatter, gathering all optics toward his person. Again, easily obtained. Who _doesn't_ like standing and admiring their gorgeous leader all day?  
  
One of these times, Blaster is determined to be the one who has the fantastic luck to draw Optimus' designation. He knows for certain too that there isn't a mech on the Ark who hasn't drooled over the idea of the opportunity. Prime is the stuff mech's recharge-fantasies are made of.  
  
“As you all know,” Prime continues, his rumbly vocalizer activating something hot and hungry in Blaster's innards. And he's not the only one affected. “This is the month of April. The time which we have chosen to celebrate Allspark's Day. And since the Decepticons were handed a sound defeat so recently, we now have the perfect opportunity to begin the festivities.”  
  
A rousing cheer ripples across the crowd. They'd sent Megatron fleeing with his tail tucked between his legs after all.  
  
Optimus raises his hands, calling again for silence.  
  
“Easy, my friends. The procedures still stand. Do I have volunteers?”  
  
Oh, bad move mech. Blaster laughs as Optimus is more than likely inundated with eager Autobots trying to make their designation the first heard. Blaster adds his own to the mix and knows that Jazz is doing the same. There are few Autobots who wouldn't be willing to participate. Maybe if Blaster tries really hard, he could name a few.  
  
Jazz's laughter carries over the crowd.  
  
“C'mon, Prime. You should know by now that open season isn't going to work. You’re gonna have ta pick.”  
  
Beside Optimus, Prowl looks up from his datapad sharply. “A lottery would be more fair,” he intones.  
  
“Who cares? Just get on with it already!” another voice suggests from the gathered mechs.  
  
“What he said!” someone else calls.  
  
“Relax, Sideswipe,” Ratchet drawls from near the table-made-stage, Bluestreak hovering close by. “You'll get your turn soon enough.”  
  
Sideswipe's leer sends quite a few engines into overheating. Or maybe it's just the sight of Sunstreaker leaning so close to his twin.  
  
“Was that an invitation?”  
  
“You couldn't handle me,” Ratchet boasts.  
  
Sideswipe's smile is wicked and just this shade of debauched.  
  
“I got a pair of magna-cuffs in my subspace. Wanna bet?”  
  
A shiver dances down Blaster's backstrut. Charge is already licking across his circuits beneath his plating. At this rate, he'll be halfway to overload before his name gets called in whichever lucky order he manages to land.  
  
“You carry those around with you everywhere?” Tracks asks, optics raking both twins from helm to pede in appreciation.  
  
Sideswipe leans back against his brother. Knowing full well how the contrast of their paint jobs makes them even more enticing.  
  
“Of course. Never know when ya might need them.”  
  
Laughter and catcalls emerge in a cacophonous riot from the crowd.  
  
“Mechs! Some order please!” Prowl calls, trying in vain to regain control.  
  
Poor Prowl, the festivities don't really mesh well with his logical thought processes. Small wonder that his participation usually lands him in a blissfully offline state.  
  
Red Alert makes a coughing noise into his palm. “Prime,” he says and nudges a datapad toward their fearless leader. “I've taken the liberty of randomizing the names of the volunteers.”  
  
“Thank you, Red Alert.” Prime takes the datapad, flicks it on, and scans the contents. The Autobots wait on bolts and brackets. “Our first volunteer this Allspark Day is...”  
  
“Drumroll please,” Jazz says from the corner of his mouth.  
  
Blaster and the mechs around them snicker quietly.  
  
“Shh,” Gears insists, shooting them a stern look. Which of course, only makes them snicker all the harder.  
  
“Blaster!”  
  
Somewhere, in the noisy cackling, Blaster hears his designation.  
  
“Did he just call me?”  
  
Jazz claps him on the shoulder. “Congrats, my mech.”  
  
“You rigged it, didn't you?” Blaster can't help his suspicion. Jazz had already known him to be out of sorts.  
  
“What? Moi?” Jazz's free hand flutters at his bumper in pretend offense. “I'm hurt, Blaster. Ta my very spark. Now get up there.” He gives Blaster a shove.  
  
The crowd of Autobots take the hint and the next thing Blaster knows, he's half-shoved, half-pulled to the front of the room and hoisted up onto the table next to Prime. Optimus has his battle mask closed, but judging by the glint in his optics, he's very much amused.  
  
“Congratulations, Blaster,” he rumbles, once again setting Blaster's sensors aflame with desire. “Today you have agreed to put your trust in Primus' will. As the first volunteer, you will open the festivities for the rest of us.”  
  
“Go boss!”  
  
Somewhere, in the back of the crowd, he can hear his cassettes cheering for him. Silly mechs.  
  
Blaster grins like an idiot. “Thanks, Prime. Pick me a good one, yeah?”  
  
“It's chance, Blaster,” Prowl says with a roll of his optics, doorwings flicking in irritation behind them.  
  
Someone's had his perfect schedule messed up today. No wonder he's a little perturbed.  
  
Blaster winks an optic at the lieutenant. “So you think.”  
  
Laughter ripples through the rec room. There's so much good will flowing through the Autobots right now, Blaster half-expects a spontaneous rendition of Kumbaya to suddenly take shape. Heh. Now there's an image.  
  
“The second drawing will be tomorrow,” Prime reminds everyone once it quiets down to a manageable level again. “As for tonight, sweet recharge.”  
  
Blaster still can't wipe the stupid grin from his lips. Sweet recharge indeed.  
  
\---  
  
Freshly polished, topped up with energon, and so eager he's bouncing on pedes, Blaster paces back and forth in his quarters. He wonders which mech Luck and Primus have given him. Sideswipe perhaps with the aforementioned cuffs. Or Percy with his clever, clever fingers. Maybe Wheeljack with any number of special toys. Or Bee, who likes to keep things soft and sweet.  
  
The opportunities are endless. Blaster's cooling fans kick on, the heat in his quarters rising up by several notches. He can't help it. There's no downshifting from this desire. It's the anticipation that's driving him crazy.  
  
The sound of his door chime makes him jump about two feet in the air. At last! Blaster whirls around, debating. Should he sit? Stand? Lay on the berth? Without any knowledge of what his partner has in mind, he can't plan. Best be spontaneous then.  
  
Standing it is. He turns toward his door, offlines his optics and sets an override on them, to keep himself from turning them back on accidentally or instinctively. It's one of the rules. No sight. And no spark merging. Just pleasurable, trusting, anonymous interfacing.  
  
Jittery with anticipation, Blaster remotely sends the command for his door to open and waits. With his optics off, everything else seems much more magnified. The sound of his door opening and someone entering, footsteps sure and steady across the ground. Not deliberately heavy but deliberately placed. The fact that they are audible at all means it's definitely not Jazz or Mirage then; they walk silently on instinct now. Probably not Prowl or Bee either.  
  
Oh, yeah. This is supposed to be anonymous. They all know that. But there's always fun in the guessing. And some, like Jazz who can't stand secrets he's not carrying, like to see if they can investigate and name their mystery mech.  
  
Blaster'll give it a good guess, but he'll be just as satisfied with not knowing.  
  
His door shuts and his partner comes closer, energy field buzzing with his own anticipation. It washes over Blaster in a careful wave, igniting a sensor net already ablaze with need. He shivers.  
  
A low chuckle spills into the room, voice one Blaster doesn't immediately recognize. But it's not hard to temporarily reset the parameters of a vocalizer.  
  
“Berth or chair?”  
  
Blaster tilts his helm, mouth quirking into a soft smile.  
  
“I'm in your hands, my mech. You tell me.”  
  
“Good answer.”  
  
There's a sound, a shifting of weight and metal sliding across metal, before Blaster feels the lightest of touches on his chassis. It takes great effort not to startle since he hadn't seen the caress coming, but he relaxes almost immediately. Deft fingers trace the seams on his chest, where metal splits to let his tape deck pop open.  
  
“Any restrictions?” the mystery mech purrs.  
  
Blaster's struts give a tangible shudder. “Nothing that'll send me to the Hatchet.”  
  
Another laugh echoes around his quiet quarters.  
  
“No. We can't have that.”  
  
He leans closer, static from his frame snapping across the short distance and setting Blaster's sensor net to tingling. Fingers tapdance over Blaster's buttons without pressing them.  
  
The mystery mech vents air, and Blaster feels the softer metal of a face plate nuzzle against the side of his helm, a slow and steady caress. Heat pools through Blaster's innards.  
  
“Requests?”  
  
Blaster has to reboot his vocalizer, teetering on the edge of a moan, before he can respond.  
  
“Just for a really good time.”  
  
“That can be arranged.”  
  
Mystery mech takes Blaster's hand even as he pulls away, putting distance between them. A tug to Blaster's hand, and he follows the nonverbal directions. Without sight, he can only go on directional memory. The berth then. Thank Primus. Large enough for he and his cassettes, it's practically decadent.  
  
His partner backs him towards it, crowding Blaster between it and his larger frame. Another hint that Blaster files away.  
  
“Up,” mystery mech says.  
  
It's only a couple extra feet. Blaster hitches himself onto the berth and lets his partner manipulate his limbs as he sees fit. He's still sitting, facing the room and mystery mech, who is now perched between his legs. Fingers encircle Blaster's wrists and tug, tilting him backward, pressing his hands to the berth behind him so that he’s leaning.  
  
It's a very open, suggestive position. If Blaster were a more modest mech, he'd be embarrassed. But he's not, so the near-vulnerable position makes desire cascade through his systems.  
  
“Don't move.”  
  
“Whatever ya say, my mech.”  
  
The only sound in the room is that of their ventilations. For a long moment, Blaster waits. Anticipation grows. He can feel the optics on him, lingering over his frame, staring at him, and the desire within him spirals higher. He twitches, anxious, desperate for anything. A touch. A kiss. A caress.  
  
By the time hands finally land on his shoulders, Blaster is primed for the touch. He moans, arching toward the wonderful, wonderful touch. Amusement flickers into his partner's energy field, which flows over Blaster in steady waves of inspiring pleasure.  
  
“Don't move,” mystery mech repeats.  
  
A low noise of frustration escapes Blaster. He heaves out a forceful ventilation, fingers curling against the plush fabric of his berth.  
  
His tactile sensors are aflame, keyed in to the light pressure on his shoulders and avidly tracking the movement of those hands. Wonderful hands, they are, dragging down the length of his arms before sweeping back up. Fingers splaying over his chestplate, dipping into the ridges of his deck before continuing downward. Tapping the buttons but not stopping to play, focused only on sliding down, down, cupping his waist, igniting the sensory net there, too. Deft fingers tease over interface ports, circling the panels covering them but not plugging in.  
  
Blaster moans, unable to remain still, twitching under the slow and steady caresses. His plating is tingling, heat pushing outward from his innards, armor plating and lifting, giving access to more tender and sensitive areas. He's subtly straining, reaching for more of the teasing strokes. But his partner seems to be in no hurry.  
  
Those hands continue their leisurely exploration. Over his hips, the tops of his thighs, around his knees, the sides of his legs, stroking his...  
  
Primus! Blaster moans, head tilting back, arms a bit shaky as they struggle to hold his upper body. He hadn't realized until now how very sensitive the speakers in his legs could be. But the way those fingers are tracing them in circle after circle is sending his sensors into a riot of pleasure.  
  
His partner is close enough that Blaster can feel the heated ventilations caressing his plating. Fingers dedicated and diligent, mapping out the planes of Blaster's armor and kibble, dipping into seams, caressing sensitive fluid lines.  
  
Blaster trembles, static crackling into his vocalizer, legs shuddering. And then, the fingers are replaced by a glossa, more deft and slick, teasing at the grooves of the dust cap before wandering out to trace the seam.  
  
“Frag,” Blaster moans, arms giving out on him. He drops back to his elbows, struggling to suck in air through his vents, heat pouring from his frame in waves.  
  
His partner is relentless, glossa abandoning the torturous pleasure of the speakers and starting back upward this time, over plating previously sensitized by the wandering hands. Static crawls over Blaster's frame, licking out from under his plating. He can hear it crackling in the air, chemoreceptors detecting the unmistakable scent of heated metal and charged ions.  
  
Pleasure streaks through Blaster's sensor net as he twitches and writhes beneath the mystery mech, unable to hold still. The glossa continues up, up. Gliding over his knees. Dipping into plating gaps. Finding the tops of his thighs. Circling and circling. Attacking his lower ventral plating and tracing the grooves of his armor there, too.  
  
Blaster whines, helpless, hips arching toward the teasing glossa and fingers that are no less busy. Fingers that happily dive beneath his plating where it's been lifted to help expel heat and gleefully stroke over exposed wires, static dancing in their wake.  
  
Electricity lashes outward, Blaster's energy field ripe with pleasure, mingling with his mystery partner's. His ventilations stutter, static fritzing his audials. His partner's glossa traces tantalizing paths over his adductor paneling. It too is proving unexpectedly sensitive.  
  
He keens, there's no better word for it, his hands rhythmically kneading the berth in an attempt to keep himself from gripping at his mystery partner. He’s on the cusp of overload, charge pouring through him, electricity licking into the air.  
  
“Primus.”  
  
Blaster almost cries, arching, desperate for more. Friction, touch, anything. He writhes, legs pushing wider, encouraging. He can feel it, his systems surging with heat and charge toward an inevitable, glorious overload.  
  
“ _More_.”  
  
His partner purrs a long, rolling chuckle and suddenly, the glossa vanishes. The hands become a distant caress before they too remove themselves from Blaster's plating.  
  
Blaster's spark seizes with denied overload. He shudders, thoughts reeling, and reaches back before he can think twice about it. His dorsal plating hits the berth, devoid of support. He paws at the plating of his mystery mech, trying to get a handhold, anything to drag his partner back down. So, so close.  
  
Fingers instantly encircle his wrists, pinning them down to the berth again. Plating crashes against plating as Blaster's partner presses up against him, armor sliding together with that much desired friction. He moans and tosses his head back. The mystery mech takes advantage of that, going for his neck. His glossa slides over the exposed cables, denta dragging a teasing scrape.  
  
Blaster's legs clamp against his mystery partner, preventing the mech from drawing away again. Static leaps from his chassis onto the other mech's, heat pouring out of both of their frames. Blaster bucks upward, sensor net a flood of heat, and his mouth opens in a soundless cry of pleasure. Overload crackles through him like a whip, electricity licking out from under his plating, snapping against the mystery mech.  
  
Blaster sags against the berth, twitching, struggling to suck cooler air into his vents, as his partner's mouth crashes against his, the kiss hungry and claiming. Blaster moans into the other mech's mouth, their glossa tangling wetly. His mystery partner nips at his lip components.  
  
“That was one,” the mech murmurs, nuzzling Blaster's jawline, fingers flexing around his wrists. “How many do you think I can wring free before your systems shut down on me?”  
  
Blaster manages a staticky, exhausted laugh. “I'm game for finding out.”  
  
His partner shifts, their chestplates bumping in a teasing scrape of friction.  
  
“Then let's try for two and go from there,” he purrs and crashes his mouth over Blaster's once more.  
  
Blaster moans, surrendering to the kiss, eager for a taste of _more_.  
  
This has been one lucky draw. And it's about to be one lucky night.  
  
\---  
  
Blaster onlines the next morning with a spark-felt groan, joints feeling tight and creaky, his systems pinging him with queries for energon and coolant. His thoughts are muzzy, but the memories are still fresh. He shivers from helm to pede, easily recalling the night before.  
  
Hours spent in a hazy fog of pleasure as he is teased into overload after overload. A glossa on his sensory nodes. Fingers dipping into seams and over circuits. The sharp tang of heated metal so thick in the room it's all he can taste for hours...  
  
Blaster shivers again and takes the override off his optical program so he can see again. It takes a second for his vision to focus. When it does, he yelps, scrambling backward on the berth.  
  
Jazz laughs at him. “I was wonderin’ when you'd wake up.”  
  
Blaster glares at his best friend. “You could have said something sooner!” He sits up, quickly raking his optics down his frame. He's been cleaned up and polished, without even the smallest sign of a paint transfer. Hmm. His mystery mech had been thorough.  
  
“And miss that classic response? Frag no!” Jazz's grin stretches a mile wide as he lifts up two containers, one in each hand. “Thought ya might need these. Have a good night, did you?”  
  
Despite his irritation, Blaster takes the peace offering. “Like you wouldn't believe,” he says and quickly downs one of the containers, which turns out to be the much-needed coolant. He checks his chronometer, optics spiraling in surprise. “Four in the afternoon? Seriously?”  
  
“Yep. Seems like you had a really good night.” Jazz flashes his visor, his idea of a wink. “Care ta share?”  
  
“Have a seat. I'll tell ya all about it.” Blaster pats the berth beside him, turning his attention to his energon cube which his system is sending him repeated pings for.  
  
“Sweet.” Jazz hops up beside him, pulling a cube from subspace and clinking it against Blaster's. “But first, any ideas who your mystery mech was?”  
  
“Not a clue,” Blaster answers honestly.  
  
Oh, he has theories, a list with about five designations on it. But he isn't going to spend any extra time on confirming them. Half the fun is in the mystery.  
  
“Prime done the drawing for tonight yet?” he asks instead.  
  
Jazz grins mischievously. “Yep. Skyfire's the lucky bot this time.”  
  
Ooo. So much landscape to cover. Blaster's spark gives a little twirl of interest. He hasn't interfaced Skyfire yet. Something to add to his to-do list. They've got to make the poor shuttle feel welcome somehow, don't they?  
  
Blaster takes a long sip of his energon. His systems eagerly suck up the energy to replace all that he'd expended the night before.  
  
“Wonder who gets to play the mysterious partner?”  
  
“Whoever it is, they're all going to have a good time regardless,” Jazz replies with a laugh and bumps Blaster with his shoulder. “C'mon, my mech. Details.”  
  
“If you insist.”  
  
Blaster grins over his energon. He might not know who his partner was, but he certainly remembers all the details. And he's more than happy to share.  
  
*****


End file.
